


Permanence

by alwayskeepwriting (Kandai)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Coda, Episode: s01e09 Home, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-27
Updated: 2015-09-27
Packaged: 2018-04-17 12:54:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4667273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kandai/pseuds/alwayskeepwriting
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The latest memory they have of their mother and it's only to see her burning a second time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Permanence

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Erik Kripke
> 
> Note: First in a row of really short fics I will write for the [SPN Top 30 episodes meme on tumblr](http://magic-is-in-the-words.tumblr.com/tagged/spntop30). English isn't my first language so it's probably full of mistakes, I apologize in advance. I hope you'll enjoy this! Today's episode is **Home** (1x09).

 

They don’t talk for a long time, after.

They let the road swallow them whole, them, the car and Lawrence’s landscape until there is nothing more than the bleakness of the early evening. They don’t bother looking for a motel; it would require a whole lot of energy they really can’t afford to spend. Dean feels he is about to fall asleep when he finally pulls over, like his head is wrapped in a warm towel; he is surprised that Sam didn’t lecture him over the multiple dangers of driving when feeling lightheaded but to be frank, he is grateful for his brother’s taciturn’s mood.

They stay silent, each one lost in their thoughts - maybe they wonder what is happening in the other’s head, maybe they don’t have to wonder. It’s not comfortable, per se, but they’ve shared worst kinds of silence. They’ll survive.

It’s minutes or hours later before Sam finally breaks the silence (it doesn’t really come like a surprise).

“I’ve heard her, Dean. It’s… I’ve heard her voice.”

He sounds terrified and amazed at the same time.

Well, Dean knows the feeling. His memories of Mom are pretty sparse, feel more like a string of incoherent sensations pulled together: the taste of rice and tomato soup, the softness of her white dresses, a hand that constantly ruffled his hair, clear eyes, the sweet scent of her perfume (jasmine, how much did she love jasmine), how  _warm_  her embrace  _was_.

He remembers her singing “Hey, Jude” to him but hearing her voice reaches a new level of sensations - of _memories (when did he forget how blond her hair was, when did he forget the sadness on her face)_ , _memories_ he is not prepared to deal with. Judging by the look on his brother’s face, neither does he.

“It feels…” Sam struggles to catch his words, stumbles over his tongue as if drunk, “It’s just… she has been dead for all those years and I’ve just heard the sound of her voice  _yesterday_.”

And how fucked up is that? How fucked up are their lives if soft voices in the dark and lullabies are all they can think about after seeing the ghost of their mom bursting into flames for  _the fucking second time_? How fucked up is it to have forgotten so many things about her but they get another memory of her burning to their ceiling?

It makes him want to scream even if he knows it’s a pointless waste of energy; howling about the unfairness of the world surely won’t bring his mother back.

“I forgot that, you know.” Dean manages to say (he has to fill the silence, he  _has to_ ). “Her voice, I mean. I wasn’t really sure if… it’s hard to tell the difference between what was real and what I’ve made up. I was so sure I remembered her sing… ” His breath hitches and crash against his throat and he is short of air suddenly, he can’t fucking breathe. Here he is, crammed in the front seat of his Baby, the only place he can call ‘home’ without feeling guilty, talking about his dead Mom and he misses her so painfully, it hurts to feel his own heart beating in his chest.

“At least, you remember something.” Sam offers. It edges close to bitterness but the hand that comes to press against his shoulder is warm and steady: a small comfort or a peace offering, it’s hard to tell. It works though and air flows a little easier now.

Thanks God, it’s not a question because Dean doesn’t want to answer to that. What is to say, really - that he wish he didn’t? That it would make it easier, less painful if he hadn’t the memories of Mom’s songs and how she always kissed his chin when he was grumpy, if he didn’t remember her at all?

Like _Sam_  does?

Dean feels like crap, suddenly. How can he ever be jealous of this kind of void, of the sheer  _absence_ of their mother in his brother’s life, he wonders but soon Sam starts talking again and the pain of the loss, her loss fades into his words, into-

“You have her smile, you know.”

It’s fucking unfair. How does he ever  _begin_  to answer?

“It… Now that I see it, it seems so obvious. Makes me wonder why I never saw it until yesterday.”

They have a little dozen of pictures of their Mom smiling, a small dozen of happy memories of her carefully tangled into wallets and small frames, that’s  _all_  they have of her and hearing to Sam’s words feels like loosing her again. How can you answer to something like that?

Dean doesn’t. Sam probably doesn’t expect him too because he fills the silence too quickly.

“I just… I wish Dad had been here. I wish he could have seen-” Sam goes quiet again and it’s a relief to pretend he can’t hear him sniffling into the hem of his shirt.

Dean doesn’t want to think about Dad right now, about the call he made to an empty voicemail, about the way he gave up and allowed himself to beg (but it’s Sammy and it’s Mom and he can never be too proud to beg for them) - he doesn’t want to talk about the silence that answered him and the cold certainty that came with it, the numb feeling of loneliness. If Dad came back into the mess their lives have become right now, he is not sure of how he would react: he wants to scream and beg and forget, simply _forget_  how the ghost of his mother looked at him last night.

Like- like she knew  _everything_. (He can only hope that’s only a feeling because he isn’t sure if he can handle the alternative.)

But what happened last night doesn’t change anything, does it? Mom is still dead, Dad is still missing, Sam’s hand is still warm over his shoulder and no matter how many good memories he can dig from his foggy mind, no matter how much his smiles look like Mom’s- this won’t get her back. Nothing can bring her back, in the end.

But that doesn’t mean their family has to stay broken.

And maybe, when all is said and done, Dad at their side again, their old wounds finally mended and the monster who have killed their mom salted and burned into the fucking  _ground_ , maybe they can learn how to make happy memories again. Maybe they can learn to let go.

Maybe one day, one day, he would learn to laugh again and find Mom’s smile in his.


End file.
